A Weekend in the White Mountains

The Long Drive

Sometimes you just gotta go somewhere. You get the itch, the calling, the desire to hop in the car and drive for several hours to a place you ain't ever been. If you've got the means, the time, the finances—what's there to stop you? Get in that hunk of junk and hit the road and glide off and away into the unknown. Go for it. See what there is to see. 

It's best to plan for such an excursion. That would be the smart thing to do. But if you've been a dedicated reader of this blog, however, you will know that planning ain't really my cup of tea. I kinda just get an idea out of nowhere and play with it for a few minutes and say to myself, "Yep, that'll work" and then I put it into action and see if it actually plays out. Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn't. But that's the beauty of it all; the thrill of experimentation. Gotta get out there and try it, live a little, you know?

I hadn't done anything interesting for a whole week. Needed to get out there. Needed to go far. I had the means, the time, the finances. I'd checked all three boxes. Oh yes. I was gonna go. Far. Hella far. Farther than I've ever gone for a lil' ol' weekend trip. 

I thought about this desert range in California. The White Mountains. Really, really far away. I'd seen 'em before while drivin' up and down the 395 a long, LONG time ago. Like 2018. It's been a while. But I remembered them. They've kinda stuck around in my mind, never really going away.  

Over the years I figured I'd check them out one day. Well, might as well get to it sooner than later. No more procrastination. Time to put the idea into action. So on the afternoon of July 22nd, I packed up my meager belongings and hit the road, driving out of Utah down the I-15 into Las Vegas, the temps ludicrous, never dipping below 110℉.

And I hit the 95 and coasted towards the minuscule outpost of Indian Springs. I had less than a quarter tank of gas. Probably shoulda stopped in Indian Springs. In fact, that was the plan. But then I saw the preposterous gas prices and I went "naw" and drove straight on through. Decided to gamble with my gas. I bet I could make it to Amargosa Valley. Just had another 40 minutes of driving. Not too bad, not too bad.

I put 'er in cruise control and coasted most of the way, using every last possible drop that was left in the tank. The gauge read empty but I was still going, still driving, crazy desert drivers passing me by at 80mph. 

Hot in that desert. Heat waves shimmering off the horizon, the lighting harsh and uninviting. And I crested a rise and began an easy descent, Amargosa Valley in the distance. Ahh yes. I was gonna make it. And I pulled into the first gas station I saw and filled my tank to the brim and took a look around, the heat sucking the moisture from my eyes. 

Small, pointy, rocky hills in the distance. Another gas station across the street. Hardly anybody out and about. Far too hot. Far too isolated. And right in front of me, a faded, green, wooden structure. "Area 51 Alien Center." And right next to it, the "Alien Cathouse." 

I walked inside the center. They sold overpriced alien merchandise and alien knick-knacks and alien stickers and alien mugs and alien keychains and alien stuff, as well as typical gas station fare, none of it alien themed. How unfortunate. And in the back was an alien restaurant where they sold these alien burgers that looked like flying saucers and they put these green toothpicks in the bun that looked like eyestalks. Real creative stuff right there. And there were a bunch of European tourists in there and they were all buying cheap American beer and the guy behind the counter must've been 6'8" and he was munchin' on what I assume was an alien sandwich he got from the alien restaurant 'cause, seriously, where else would he have gotten it from, the cathouse? 

Didn't linger too long in that shop. Still had a lot of ground to cover. So I hopped back in the car, AC on full blast. More road, more desert, more scraggily bushes and harsh lighting and a big ol' sand dune in the distance and even bigger mountains beyond that. Drove on through Beatty. Hooked a left on the 266. Storm clouds formed up above, dumping ephemeral rain upon the dry, desiccated land. Strange colors, stranger lighting. Purple, golden, silver. A rainbow. A double rainbow. An incline. Goin' up now. Gettin' into the high desert. No more creosote. Just miles and miles of sagebrush. 

And then the road lost a bunch of elevation and I was back in the lower desert and I crossed the border into California and got my first good look at the White Mountains, the things rising up from the static horizon like massive waves in a tempestuous sea. A dark, shadowy range they were; golden clouds flanking the tippity tops of the higher peaks. I stopped the car. Got out. Took some pictures. And then it was back to the road, the windy, bumpy, scenic ol' road.

Drove up a bunch of twists and turns. Reached Gilbert Pass. Dropped down into Deep Springs Valley, Bobby Darin on full blast. Sun going down now, the lighting quite dramatic, a flavorful shift from the harsh tone it had been for most of the day.

The White Mountains

Deep Springs Valley

And then it was time to go up again. A whole lotta up. Drove the hunk of metal and rubber across cracked asphalt and squiggly wiggly twists and turns all the way to Westgard Pass. And then I hooked a right and began the long drive up White Mountain Road, the thing transitioning from blacktop to dirt, the sun below the horizon now, vomiting orange fire into the boundless sky. 

Along White Mountain Rd

Golly gee willikers, what a sunset. Golly gee willikers, what a road. Dang man. Can't really put it into words. Just drove along, nobody else on that dirt road, the thing slightly muddy from some torrential rains that had fallen the day before. Everything smelled fresh and clean, the air saturated with an overwhelming aroma of sagebrush. And I'd stop and look off to the west, the vast, rugged line of the Sierra Nevada in sight, purple and black, the sky on fire. A deep, resonant orange-red, impossibly vibrant, the high peaks of the Sierra reaching into the fire like so many little fingers. Ain't ever seen no sunset quite like it. I enjoyed it while I could, munchin' on Pita Chips in the meantime. 

And then it was over and it was plain ol' dark now and the clouds had formed into something massive overhead and it started to rain, just a tad, little drops caressing the windshield. And I drove slow and careful-like; didn't want to get no flat. No sir. Slow and steady, the rain comin' down nice and gentle, everything pitch-dark. And then I reached the end of the road and pulled off to the side and set up my sleepin' bag and hit the hay. Had a long day in the morning. I'd need my beauty sleep.

White Mountain Peak and Such

I awoke just before 6am, the sun slowly cresting the eastern horizon, a brilliant ball of fiery red, everything aglow with a ferociously subdued, crimson radiance. I sneezed, coughed, let out a burp or two. Alright. Time to get to work. I put away my sleepin' bag, got dressed, wolfed down some calories, and then stepped outside for a routine morning tinkle. Not too cold outside, which was surprising. I elected to leave my puffy down jacket in the car, only takin' my fleece and rain jacket. Whether or not that would bite me in the ass later was to be determined.

I donned the pack and then began the long hike to my chosen destination: White Mountain Peak. I got the idea that I'd most certainly have to see this thing on my visit to the White Mountains; not only is it the high point of the entire range but it's also the 3rd tallest peak in California overall. Definitely worth seein', especially since there's a nice, wide trail that takes you all the way to the summit. Gotta love that. Plus the thing is over 14,000ft high and it had been nearly 2 years since I'd last been at that altitude and I was eager to see what it was like yet again. Can't beat a good ol' high-altitude-induced migraine. Those things hit different... 

The start of the hike

I quickly found that the trail to the summit is really just an old dirt road. I crossed a locked gate, started headin' up a gentle, mellow grade. The fiery red of the early morning began transitioning to a soft golden hue that blanketed everything in sight. Windswept, open, expansive country stretching out in all directions; not a single tree to be seen. Jackrabbits and marmots munchin' on the grass, running away at full speed whenever I got to within 15ft of them. Nobody else out and about, just me, the scene, the rabbits and the marmots and the crisp, clear morning sky.

Eventually I reached the Barcroft Research Facility. Saw a few cars there, all of them parked in a neat little row. No smoke, no sounds, no activity of any kind to be seen from within the facility. Perhaps everyone was still sleeping. Or maybe they'd all been abducted by aliens. Who's to say?

And I followed the signs and ascended the road to a saddle of sorts, a small, rusted observatory situated just off the road to my right. And I turned around and looked to the south and saw the vast expanse of the White Mountains undulating before me, the higher peaks windswept and barren, numerous groves of bristlecones and limber pines dotting the lower elevations. 

South

It wasn't long before I finally got my first good look at White Mountain Peak. Tall, pointy, picturesque—this thing looked like the typical mountain that you imagine in your mind's eye whenever you think of the word "mountain." Rising up out of the barren alpine grasses, it dominated the horizon, still a long ways off, infinitely captivating. I snapped a couple of photos, sipped some water, and then carried on down the road, terribly excited for the mellow ascent to the top of this gentle giant. 

White Mountain Peak

Didn't really look at the time. Just kinda walked along, counting the marmots. I stopped after 20. There were far too many, the things running around everywhere and diving into their burrows and screeching and staring at me with their beady little eyes. Save for the marmots and the jackrabbits I'd seen earlier in the morning, I didn't really see any other animal species up there, except maybe the occasional bird or two. 

And the road went up and then it went down and then it really went up, switchbacking its way along the southeastern side of the peak. My pace slowed considerably, the altitude ringing in my brain. Ahh yeah. Good ol' altitude. Gotta love it. 

And the wind picked up and it was nice and cold and I donned the fleece and stuck my hands in my pockets and swaggered and sauntered the rest of the way to the summit, walking through a patch of lingering snow along the way. An old research station, made up of a bunch of rocks and cement, sat lonely and cold on the summit, watching over everything with eyes that didn't exist. I sat down, sipped some more water, and took a look at the terrific views. 

Almost there...

The Summit

Bishop wayyy down there; the Sierra in the distance

With 7,196ft of prominence, White Mountain Peak offered some pretty dang good views. Off to the west I could see the vast, rugged expanse of the Sierra Nevada, a long line of crazy peaks running from north to south, the Palisades center stage, their glaciers still clinging to existence despite years and years of extreme heat. Standing there on the summit, it was strange to think that I was higher than every single peak in that range, save for Mt. Williamson and Mt. Whitney of course. And down there, miles and miles away, was a small patch of green surrounded by a sea of tan; the town of Bishop no doubt. Looking to the northwest revealed the Glass Mountain rising out of a hazy desert, and, to the north, the rest of the White Mountains Range, Montgomery Peak and Boundary Peak visible in the distance. To the east sat an incomprehensible expanse of desert mountain ranges and valleys. Basin and range country. Wild, wild, wild. And to the south, stretching off into the hazy distance, rose more peaks of the White Mountains, Mt. Barcroft clearly visible, Sheep and Paiute Mountain like green little Hershey's Kisses. 

Northish, Montgomery and Boundary Peak wayyy out there

East

South

Northwest, Glass Mountain center right in the haze

Didn't linger too long on the summit. It was mighty cold up there in the wind and I was beginning to regret the decision of leaving my puffy jacket in the car. Oh well. A little bit of walking would warm me up nice and quick. So I left my marks in one of the booklets in the gigantic summit register, the thing packed with loose bits of paper, trash, a plastic water bottle, a can of sardines, and a signed, prosthetic hand. 

And then it was down, down, down, out of the wind, back on the road, back to wandering around amongst the marmots and the grass. Saw some folks who were making their way up. They were the only other people I saw on the road the whole day. Asked me what it was like on the summit. I said "windy." And they went "oh man." And that was the end of that conversation.

Walking along, one peak checked off the list, I decided to venture off the road over to this little nubbin' just to the left. "Perry Arken Top" it's called. Didn't really look like much, but you never know what can be out there. As it turns out, what's out there is a metic ton of marmot feces. Should change the name of that mound of rocks and grass to "Fort Marmot Dookie," 'cause that's exactly what it is. Not worth seeing in the slightest, but hey, sometimes that's just the way it goes. I hopped off the jumbled pile of rocks and then made my way back to the road, walking towards Mt. Barcroft in the distance. 

"Perry Arken Top"

Mt Barcroft in the distance

On the road, the shrill whistles of the marmots permeating the air. Man, I'd never seen such a high concentration of the little buggers in my whole life. This place was marmot city. They were everywhere; big ones, little ones, brave ones, ones that stood on their hind legs, ones that ran at top speed and disappeared microseconds later inside their burrows, ones that sat on all fours and looked at me with curious expressions plastered on their silly little faces, groups of two, groups of four, having a picnic it seemed, living their best life, a simple life, a life of grass and sunshine and afternoon storms and winter hibernation. 

I left the road yet again, cutting across the grass and the rocks and the ubiquitous marmots to the summit of Mt. Barcroft. Started ascending a slope. Looked around. Sat on down, streched my back, took a lil' breather. The weather was absolutely divine, tiny little white clouds in the sky, everything cool and bright and fresh and beautiful. I posted up shop on that slope for a good fifteen minutes, starting at White Mountain Peak. What a pretty mountain. Didn't really get to appreciate its beauty on the way up. But now, with this lighting, at this time of day, with this arrangement of cloud and sunshine and shadow, the thing looked absolutely gorgeous, one of the most beautiful sights I'd ever seen...

Mt. Barcroft

To be continued...

The Narrows

07/10/26

Millions of people visit Zion National Park every year. Of those millions, tens of thousands brave the trek into the famous Narrows. Why? Couldn't tell you. Maybe there's a Buc-ee's in there. I don't know. I ain't ever been, which is kinda sad given that I've been frequenting the park for the past several months. What can I say? I don't really like water all that much. 

I've been hittin' the trails and peaks in the meantime. Been gettin' high in the sky, burnin' my skin in the sun, feelin' the wind caress my eyelashes, poundin' my joints on the downhill, overworking my kidneys in the heat, you know, fun stuff like that. But I figured that I'd have to check out the Narrows at some point this year. I mean, everyone hikes the Narrows and most of my coworkers have hiked the Narrows and so of course that meant that I had to hike them as well. Had to see what they were all about. What exactly is it about the Narrows that makes them so popular? Are they overrated? Or are they actually legit? I'd have to see for myself. 

So I hopped on a company shuttle and we drove all the way out to Chamberlain's Ranch, the morning balmy, the air tepid. It was gonna be a hot one that day, the temps soaring well into the triple digits. Good thing I'd be in the water for most of the time. Hikin' on dry land far away from any kind water in that kind of heat is absolutely no fun whatsoever. Trust me. Been there, done that.

The first creek crossing

On the trail...

After a quick whizz and a meager application of zinc, I hopped through the first creek crossing, wetting my feet in the process. Felt good. Nice and cool. And then it was a quiet, scenic, meditative romp on a dirt road for a couple of miles, just sauntering along, enjoying the morning air. I passed a large group of ten that had been dropped off on an earlier shuttle. Seven teenage boys, three chaperons. They were loud. Boisterous. I walked through their group. One of 'em asked me, "Is this the way to the Narrows?" And I said "Man, I hope so." And then they laughed and I sped off, trying to make a decent gap between me and their loquaciousness. Unfortunately, the Narrows nowadays is no longer a good spot for those seeking solitude. Gonna run into somebody eventually. But damn it all, I was gonna try to seek it anyway, hoping that I could open up a long enough gap to where I could feel like I was well and truly out there, all by my lonesome, just me, the weathered sandstone and the rushing water. 

And Chamberlain's Ranch stretched out before me, the property a lot larger that I'd imagined. Lots of green grass, lots of farm equipment, lots of tire tracks and stacks of hay and horsies and trees and all that good stuff. Passed by Bulloch's Cabin. At least, what was left of it. More like Bulloch's woodpile nowadays. That cabin has sure seen better days...

A cool tractor, the remnants of Bulloch's Cabin right

Entering the water

And it wasn't long after passing Bulloch's Cabin when I entered the Virgin River. Goodbye trail, hello water. I hopped in, ziggin' and zaggin' from bank to bank. I followed a use trail here, another there. Sometimes they made things easier. Sometimes they didn't. Sometimes they took me well above the river, hikin' through grass and aromatic pines. Other times they meandered along the bank, or they cut across at random points, bypassing what I found to be scenic sections that were definitely worth seeing. There was no rhyme or reason to where I went. Kinda just stayed in the water for the most part, heading downstream. Just took it slow, absorbed the surroundings, splish splash, splish splash.

Can you spot the arch?

The canyon gettin' more extreme...

It was like a symphony. A very long symphony, one that would take a while before reaching its conclusion. The first movement of this symphony was slow, very slow. A gentle introduction. Nothing fancy. Nothing loud. The walls of the canyon were quite mellow, the Virgin River more like a creek than a river, the scenery tame but beautiful. And the farther I went the more complex the symphony became, incorporating new instruments, a delicately slow crescendo, all of it building up to something utterly fantastic. The walls grew in height; they became much more sheer, much more variegated, textured, colorful. The river gently wound its way downhill, slowly carving everything away, one little piece at a time. Down, down, down, the scenery growing more interesting, more extreme with every step. Ahh yeah. This was gonna be a good one. 

I'd walk a bit and then stop and stare and shake my head and mutter "wow." Found myself doing this quite often actually; seemed like every bend of the river revealed something new and amazing. A gigantic, multi-colored cliff. Tall trees clinging to the canyon rim. Alcoves, dry waterfalls, side canyons, interestingly shaped rocks and boulders. I'd stop and stare, I'd look at these features, my mind raving, attempting to comprehend the age of this place, how much water it took to carve these features, what it looked like in the past, what it would look like in the future. And all of it was overwhelming and all of it was too much and the only thing I could think of to say was "wow."

And I'd stop often, munch on some bread. I'd take in the sights, I'd stop, look up into the sky, look downstream, look back from whence I came. And then I'd hear the screeches of the teenage boys and I knew that they were close so I put my feet in gear and picked up the pace, changing the day from a casual saunter into a typical, mind-numbing hike. 

When I thought I'd put enough distance between me and the loudness, I slowed the pace and stumbled upon the first "narrows" section of the day. High cliffs, wavy cliffs, lookin' for all the world like the fossilized remnants of the gills of a gargantuan fish. And I hiked through these cliffs, the water surprisingly shallow, the morning light nice and bright, bouncing off most everything in sight. 

I stopped paying attention to the miles. Stopped paying attention to the hike. I fell back into the symphony, I let the music of the canyon take me where I needed to go. Second movement now, the music more intense, a bit faster now. High cliffs, more narrow sections, crazy features. I lost all sense of location; had no idea where I was on the map. And that was fine by me. I walked along, eager to see what was on the other side of another bend in the river. Splish splash, splish splash. Cliffs, canyons, green trees, their leaves almost glowing. And then I came upon a waterfall. Bypassed it on the left. Turned around, snapped a photo, forced down a crushed banana, and then carried on, approaching the junction with Deep Creek. 

The Waterfall

 

And then I heard voices and they were comin' from downstream and soon I met the 2nd group of the day, two young dudes from Pennsylvania. And we stopped and chatted for a bit and exchanged stories and marveled at the beauty of the canyon. And then we set off as a group since we were all kinda hikin' the same pace anyways. And they were a lot more quiet than the teenage boys and we walked along the river in silence, the walls of the canyon towering above us, incomprehensible. I though back to Chamberlain's. Thought of how mellow the terrain looked. Though about the gentle trickle of the Virgin River, the thing unassuming, infinitely humble. Crazy to think that such a little river could create such dramatic scenery just a few miles downstream. 

Junction with Deep Creek

I found myself stopping to take far too many pictures and soon the Pennsylvanians and I split up, them doing their own thing, me doing mine. And I reached the junction with Deep Creek and the canyon widened significantly, towering cliffs on all sides. Now joined by Deep Creek, the Virgin River looked more like an actual river; the water deeper, the current stronger. I lingered for a moment, muchin' on more bread, takin' pictures of the confluence. And then I continued downstream, moving along at a leisurely pace, takin' picture after picture, the symphony now in its third movement, casual yet grand, a little slower than before, more gentle, soothing, lovely, majestic. 

Kolob Creek

The simple act of putting one foot in front of the other brought me within the presence of the Pennsylvanians once again. They were sitting in the shade, sprawled on some rocks, munchin' on trailmix and snacks and stuff. Asked me how it was going. I said "hot." And hot it was. It was hot as balls. By that point, the sun had finally crested the canyon rim and was shining with full brightness and intensity upon us. The air was warm. You could almost taste it. But luckily we had the river as a reprieve from stifling heat and I dunked my bandana and hat and soaked them nice and good and put them on my head and I wished the Pennsylvanian's good luck with the rest of their hike and then set off downstream. "Catch you later" I said. Didn't know it at the time, but that was the last time I ever saw 'em. Oh well...

Big Springs

Zigging, zagging, walking through ankle-deep water, walking through waste-deep water. No rhyme or reason, no hopes, no dreams. Just walkin' along, walking along and soakin' in the scene and listening to the music. 

And then I kinda just stumbled upon Big Springs and I knew that I would no longer be alone. Big Springs is the farthest spot you can hike to in the Narrows (bottom-up) without the need for a permit, and already there were a bunch of people gathered around 'em, takin' pictures, posing, all that stuff. I joined the fray, taking pictures of my own. The springs themselves looked artificial, like they belonged in a Rainforest Cafe or something. I suppose it was the gushing water spewing forth from deep within the cliff, pouring into the Virgin River as if powered by some unseen, mechanized pump. I'd never witnessed such violent springs before. They were truly a sight to behold. 

And then I carried on and there were people everywhere, groups of two or three or eight, all of 'em dressed differently, some better prepared than others. This was the fourth movement, the loudest, most intense part of the symphony. Everything had been leading up to this point. All that build-up, all that noise, all of it leading to this. 

So much going on. So much going on everywhere. People, moving like ants, tiny against the backdrop of the towering cliffs. Turquoise water, cool to the touch, echoing off the sides of the canyon. Sheer cliffs, towering cliffs, colorful cliffs, the biggest and tallest I'd seen all day, all of 'em adorned with greenery, delicate ferns, various plants, hanging on for dear life. For the 2nd time that day, all I could say was "wow." Just "wow." Had to stop a few times. Had to stop and stand and take a moment to absorb it all, to process what exactly it was my eyes were seeing. 

I walked along, the water reaching up to my neck in one spot. I went with the scene, my mind unable to fully comprehend what it was witnessing. And all that witnessing and reflecting and meditating was sure makin' me hungry. Time for some lunch. 

And I left the water, sat on down on the hot rocks, watched these young boys jump off a crumbly rock into water that wasn't very deep. Munched on the last of my bread. Chewed on a protein bar. Took another whizz. And then it was back in the water, back to the saunter, heading into "Wall Street" the music at a fever pitch, the symphony reaching its climax. 

Entering "Wall Street"

Man. What to say, what to say. A lot of people see Wall Street. It's probably the most popular destination in the Narrows. No solitude. No silence. There were a bunch of people there, most of 'em noisy. Lots of kids. Lots of tourists oooing and ahhhing. Some shouts, some hollers. People on their phones, people setting up tripods, people takin' selfies, people vloggin' the whole thing. I noticed these things. I saw the people. Hell, I was one of the people. I took pictures. I oooed and ahhhed. I wasn't separate from anything. I was part of the mix, just like everyone else. 

But I did take the time to filter it out. I'd stop often in Wall Street, stand right in the middle of the river. The noises of the people faded away. I gazed at the towering cliffs, the things so high they blocked out the sun. It was almost like a cave in some sections; everything nice a cool, a reprieve from the sun. And the water flowed on through and I could not fathom how it could carve out such an incomprehensibly, breathtakingly magnificent canyon. Couldn't understand it. Couldn't fathom it. The music was too loud. 

But I carried on regardless, walking past "Floating Rock" and eventually reaching the junction with Orderville Canyon. I'd made good time so I decided to check out Orderville, see what it was about. Just a small detour, nothing too crazy. And there were tons of people in Orderville and it was shallow and narrow and I helped people take pictures and I talked to a few folks and I made it as far as I felt like going and then turned around and made my way back to the Virgin River, the symphony almost over, everything in diminuendo.

Orderville Canyon

Somewhere in Orderville Cyn

Back at the junction; Orderville Cyn left

Back in the Virgin River, back to the crowds. I walked along, careful not to slip or trip over the ubiquitous boulders and rocks hiding underneath the current. My legs were seasoned now; they'd been trekkin' in the water for most of the day. I'd found a groove and I took it, moving through the water with care and efficiency, the miles melting underfoot, the scenery terrifically scenic, much too much of the eyes to handle all at once. 

Almost done...

And I walked around a sharp horseshoe bend and soon I was trekkin' past Mystery Falls, people everywhere, all of them swimming or sitting or talking or gawking or hiking, fully geared out, serious expressions plastered on their stern faces. And then I saw the staircase and it was time to exit the water. Goodbye water, hello trail. And it was hotter than all get out on that trail, people red in the face, everyone sweating bullets. I carried on, nothing on my mind. The symphony was complete, the final note still lingering in my ear. 

I reached the trailhead, hopped on the air-conditioned shuttle. The thing took off, rolling down the road. I looked straight ahead. The thing was packed, people crammed in there like sardines. Some talked loudly, others quietly. Talked about the hike or the water or the heat or other places in the park or where they were going next or what they had seen on the news. And then we reached the visitor center and I got off and walked over to my car and sat and rolled the windows down and that was that. 

So are the Narrows overrated? Or are they legit? I don't even know what those words mean. Walking along the cavernous defile, the hot sun high above, the cool water down below, the cliffs on either side, speckled with hanging greenery and stubborn little trees—out off all the words that entered my brain upon viewing these wondrous things, overrated and legit never once crossed my mind. 

It was a good walk. In enjoyed it. Thoroughly. I can definitely see why thousands of people visit the Narrows every year. Them's sure is purty. But overrated? Legit? Who's to say. It is entirely dependent upon the individual. Some people will like them. Some people will love them. Some people will barely notice them, too wrapped up in documenting the event with cameras and microphones. Some people will hate them, find them boring, tedious, far too strenuous. And some will actually see them for what they truly are, see them in all their glory, observe the whole scene and soak up the essence and truly begin to understand the gist of it all, able to bear witness to a small slice of the sublime, almost incomprehensible to the human mind.

I don't know. I've been ramblin' for far too long about things I know nothing about. I liked the Narrows. That's all there is to say. Glad I finally got out there after all these months. I'll probably go back in the fall to see how it looks with all the changing colors and whatnot.